


Only the Two of Them

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), References to Canon, ace friendly, this is the tiny bit sad but mostly soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: Crowley likes to spend his days at the bookshop now. Sometimes, he shares the sofa with the angel and sometimes, a bit of comfort is needed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671922
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	Only the Two of Them

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to akinmytua as usual!

It’s a lazy day at the bookshop, just like any day, really. The perks of not actually intending to sell any books include (apart from keeping the valuable tomes, of course) the full potential of scaring customers away through immeasurably high prices, a vaguely discomforting aura around the entire place and a very grumpy bookseller.

Well, the grumpy bookseller point has recently come under debate. Certain Soho residents of a more bookish interest have noticed that in recent months, the peculiar bowtie-wearing owner has taken to a generally more friendly way, a more relaxed attitude - and, imagine that, smiling at the odd customer! Certain Soho residents have been quick to connect this to the sudden appearance of a red-haired, lanky individual, who spends many days on the worn-down sofa in the back of the shop. They are not yet certain of his _purpose_ there, since he often seems to spend his time swiping away on his phone, drinking coffee, glaring at anybody who comes too close to whatever vaguely expensive looking object is closest to him and - on one memorable occasion - rearranging several bookshelves without the owner’s knowledge[1].

* * *

Crowley must admit that it is _nice_ to spend his time that way. On days when he doesn’t have anything else to do, he will come for a visit and waste his time splayed across every piece of upholstery the bookshop has to offer, occasionally looking up and watching the angel fuss with his precious volumes.

On this particular day, it’s a copy of some nineteenth century poetry collection that was given to him by a neighbour[2] and Aziraphale is taking his time, gently smoothing out the dog ears the previous owners have left behind.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks suddenly, voice soft. Even without turning around, he notices when Crowley’s eyes are on him, and even without seeing the angel’s face, Crowley knows that he’s smiling.

“Nothing, really,” Crowley says and it’s true. “‘s comfortable here.”

Aziraphale puts down the wooden ruler he uses to smooth the pages and carefully lays the book aside. He gently picks up the teacup from his desk and crosses over to the sofa.

“I know. One might even say it’s a nice place.”

Crowley grins. “Unless you’re a customer.”

“Yes, well, I suppose it depends on the question if you’re supposed to be around here or not,” Aziraphale says, sitting down next to Crowley.

There’s a hand’s width of space between them, as there usually is these days. It’s quite a bit of progress compared to the way they used to be, just a couple of months ago.

Of course it takes time. It’s far from easy, this affection thing. It’s not always there - well it is, in a way, but not always palpable. Sometimes, there are light touches; a hand on the small of his back guiding him, hands joined on a table or arms linked in front of a store window. Other times, there’s just a general air of comfort and affection around them that even Crowley will pick up on.

And then, after a few moments, the idea of what Aziraphale just said sinks in.

“So you’re saying I’m supposed to be around here,” Crowley says and it’s not a question, it’s a satisfied observation.

“Obviously,” Aziraphale agrees. “You were always welcome here.”

He takes a sip of his tea and settles into the sofa. The restraint that was hovering in the air between them for a moment explains itself now. Crowley’s arm is resting on the back of the sofa, part of his comfortable sprawl, and Aziraphale has to make contact with it if he wants to settle in completely. He gently leans against it now, ensuring that it’s all right for him to do so. And of course it is, there’s nothing that he could find uncomfortable about it. In fact, he rearranges his arm just a little, so that his hand can rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, a soft touch that grounds them both there, together.

“I’ll try my best. Perfect way to tempt you to sloth, too,” Crowley says, in a light and teasing tone.

Aziraphale smiles against the rim of his cup. Miraculously, a soft steam is still rising from his tea. Crowley thinks he looks endearing, even if he wouldn’t admit to it out loud.

“You’re incorrigible,” Aziraphale says, finally. “But I’m happy to have you.”

Crowley rubs his palm over the angel’s shoulder. “That’s… mutual. I mean, you’re also a bit of a hopeless case but - yeah.”

“I’m sorry that we had to go so long without admitting that… to each other and to ourselves.”

The atmosphere around them seems to shift and Crowley notices the tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders. It’s nothing he can blame himself for and yet, there’s a slowly building frown on his face, an uncertainty in the lines around his mouth. Crowley doesn’t want him to look like this but he doesn’t quite know what to do, either. 

Azirphale clears his throat but there’s no relaxation in the action. His knuckles are strangely white around the handle of his cup.

“I’m so glad I didn’t lose you without ever telling you that,” he mumbles into his tea.

“None of this,” Crowley says decisively.

He gently takes the teacup from his hands and sets it onto the side table, careful not to let it clatter. Aziraphale’s expression is unguarded and there’s a certain discomfort about him, a terrible string of _what if-s_ building up before his mind’s eye, so clearly visible on his face.

“Hey, Aziraphale - doesn’t matter now. I have you and you have me,” he says, voice softer now.

He runs his hand down Aziraphale’s sleeve and wraps his arm around him, a light and careful touch. The muscles under his palm are relaxing a little, although the tension is still there.

“Come here,” Crowley mumbles.

Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, then he shifts his weight, closes the distance and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He takes a few deep breaths and the effect is noticeable; the stress visibly starts to disappear now and he’s slowly calming. Crowley raises his other arm too and wraps it around Aziraphale. They’re even closer now and he can bury his nose in the softness of the angel’s curls.

“This alright?” he asks, breath warm over his hair.

Aziraphale gently rubs his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder, remains there, resting on top of the crinkled fabric.

“It’s nice. Very much so, actually.”

The angel’s voice is mellow and calm, the storm of anxiety and guilt has been prevented. Instead, Crowley can focus on the way it feels to have him in his arms, warm and soft. It’s a novel thing, to have him so close and not worry about it, but it’s something he could get used to and he realises that alarmingly quickly. It seems that Aziraphale comes to the same conclusion since he shifts a little and crosses his legs over Crowley’s, thigh to thigh, so Crowley holds him tighter.

Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley in turn and sighs contentedly. He moves his head again, to the crook of Crowley’s neck so the demon’s chin won’t dig into his skin any longer. They stay like that for a while and Crowley’s thoughts start to wander. He thinks about warm things, blankets and fireplaces, and he becomes tired.

“I love you so very dearly,” Aziraphale says all of a sudden.

That lets a tender feeling rise in his chest and he smiles. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s hair and mumbles a “love you too” into his curls. Another moment’s silence, then he can feel the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitch into a smile against his skin.

“You know what I’d call this?” he asks, a grin clearly audible in his voice. “Cuddling.”

Crowley pulls a face. “Oh, shut up. That’s too _sweet_.”

“Something less saccharine then? What about embracing?” Aziraphale suggests and _oh he’s having fun with that_. “Snuggling? Being enfolded in each other’s arms? Is that more to your liking?”

“Fine, _cuddling_ then,” Crowley says.

He gently runs a soothing hand over Aziraphale’s trousers and rests it on his knee. It’s odd, how well it fits there, his spindly bones on the angel’s soft leg. Now there’s a thought.

And he has enough time to contemplate that, today and ever; for as long as there’s a sofa in Aziraphale’s bookshop, an angel and a demon will share it, be it sober or drunk, happy or maudlin, awake or slowly drifting off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Said incident had resulted in a two week absence of the red-haired individual from the shop and Crowley’s firm promise to never attempt cleaning the bookshop again, regardless of good or bad intention.
> 
> [2] “I’ve to clear the rubbish out someday, Jen. Mr. Fell will like it and I’ll have one less thing to throw out,” the neighbour said to his wife. He was about to be proven right.


End file.
